


How to Train Your Consulting Detective

by Ailorian



Category: How to Train Your Dragon - Fandom, Pixar - Fandom, Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes - fandom, bbc - Fandom
Genre: AU, Crossover, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 07:51:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ailorian/pseuds/Ailorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't know why/how yet but sometimes Sherlock is a dragon. John moves into Baker Street despite Sherlock's (secret) continued use of it. I don't know whats going to happen next either. Shhhh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Train Your Consulting Detective

**Author's Note:**

> Insert appropriate disclaimers: not my anything. Even the words don't belong to me, I just arranged them for my amusement. No money earned, no intentional plagiarism.

This is 221B Baker Street; a pleasantly attractive, small yet comfortably appropriate flat, left inexplicably unrented for years, where I have been fortunate enough to make my home after being invalided from the military. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, had been unable to empty the flat of the previous tenant’s belongings, and I found myself in possession of a great many things I didn’t quite understand the purpose of keeping.

When I had arrived, the place felt recently lived in, though Mrs. Hudson assured me it had been empty for several years. She had done her best to clean it up, so that it wasn’t repulsive, but the shelves on the far wall were littered with books, odds and ends, as well as what first appeared to be - and was later confirmed as - a human skull.

There was furniture enough to fill the flat; a leather sofa, two mismatched armchairs, animal heads, bookshelves, a table and chairs in the kitchen. The bedroom had a fairly nice set of black wooden furniture, including a bed and armoire that still held the previous tenant’s clothing. Feeling as though I was being a bit invasive, I did manage to pack most of the personal items up, storing them in the bedroom on the third floor. It didn’t seem right to simply toss it all.

Admittedly, I was rather selective about the other personal items I stored. The books, some of which I was interested in reading, I let sit on the shelves simply because I had little else to fill them. However, the collection of glass laboratory equipment, along with the human skull, and several other oddities, were all stored upstairs with the rest of it.

Nearly six months after I had initially moved in, I found myself wondering how so many things had been left behind, and, upon inquiring, was informed by Mrs. Hudson that her previous tenant had gone missing.

“He just left.” She had explained softly, her tone a bit sad as she tilted her head to glance at the floor. “I expected he’d come back, eventually, you know, I thought he was rather fond of me in some way. He lived here for years. Even after he’d gone, his rent check arrived each month for nearly a year and I thought nothing of it. Perhaps he was on a long trip, or in the middle of one of his cases.”

“Cases?” I asked curiously.

“Oh yes, he was a detective.”

Which certainly explained some of the experiments, the journals and binders full of practically random information, the abandoned laptop with obviously overused keys. At first, I had presumed him to be a writer of some sort. I had known several authors and novelists in the army, many of whom shared one oddity or another with the stranger with whom I was, in some ephemeral way, sharing a flat.

Mrs. Hudson told me once, upon my return from a bit of grocery shopping, that my dreadfully domestic chore was a delight to see. Apparently, her previous tenant had never bothered with groceries, and she had frequently taken it upon herself to make sure he was eating regularly.

Another time, having walked in on me running the sink to do my dishes, she remarked on how wonderful it was to have such a cleanly renter, making small mentions of her previous tenant’s inability, or rather refusal, to clean up after himself and his penchant for destroying things when forced to idleness.

The third story she told me involved his occupation, which I had previously understood to be a detective inspector of the law. When I voiced this presumption, however, Mrs. Hudson laughed quietly, patting my arm as if I were a misguided child.

“Sherlock was a consulting detective, Dr. Watson.” She explained in a fond tone. “Only took the cases that interested him, and he really only cared for the clever ones, no matter how gruesome.” Shaking her head, she frowned slightly. Her face gave me the impression that she had something further to say, but she excused herself instead.

Growing infinitely more curious, I decided finally to do some research. Sherlock was a rather archaic, if not simply rare, name, I mused, and though Mrs. Hudson - as well as a curious and cursory search of the flat - had yet to yield his surname, it was simple enough to find the man regardless. The first result was his well organized, and surprisingly scientifically boring, web blog.

The Science of Deduction

Which consisted almost entirely of long winded explanations regarding the answers found in the observable details of a person. To my amusement, the man claimed to be able to identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb, which seemed at once an utterly ridiculous and a tantalizingly curious concept. It was equally unusual to find that, despite all my searching, it appeared nothing had been published about him being missing.

On the first day of the seventh month I had lived at Baker Street, the third floor bedroom window, which faced the back yard, was smashed. Waking in the middle of the night, I startled at the sound of shattering glass, and a distinctive thumping sound as someone moved about above me. Taking my pistol from my bedside table, I crept up the stairs in silence, wondering how I might warn Mrs. Hudson of a break in, when she slept soundly on the ground floor.

Despite the adrenalin pumping through me, I found myself stoic, heart rate harsh but even in my ears, and the hand holding my pistol remained steady, despite my days as a surgeon being ended by an awfully inconvenient tremor.

As I reached the third floor, pressing the unlocked door open silently in the darkness, I held my breath. Unfortunately, as soon as the door was open enough to see through, I gasped, finding a rather tall and thin figure with a head full of dark curls, rifling through the boxes I had stacked, which had been tossed haphazardly in a circle at the center of the room.

The stranger glanced up at me, sitting cross legged on the floor and naked, while blue green eyes raked in the entirety of my visible person. Eyes wide, I raised my pistol, taking a staggered stance, but before aught else could be done, the intruder stood lithely and leaped, arms first in a swan dive, through the broken window.

Stunned, I immediately ran toward the window, the pistol still in my hand and ready as I leaned between jagged shards, searching the ground for his corpse. As I leaned further out, however, there was no body to behold. A brief rush of wind drew my attention skywards, and from the corner of my eye I saw a great looming shadow flit over the single plane tree in the yard like a kite in the wind or a massive bird.


End file.
